‘“Ilsa turned the page of her music to the second movement. As usual, she felt that slight shiver, a mix of nerves, anticipation and excitement as she prepared to become the centre of attention, her solo melody accompanied by one of the world’s foremost pianists, their instruments weaving together all too briefly in one of her favourite moments of Rachmaninoff. She reached for her clarinet as the audience settled again in rapt attention.
A sudden loud crack like a gunshot drew gasps from the auditorium as one of the piano strings snapped. Suddenly released from its high tension anchor, it whipped across Ilsa’s throat killing her instan_”’
‘Just a minute, Jill, I still don’t see how that would work,’ interrupted Gail.
‘Whaddya mean? Like, piano wire – it’s classic.’
‘I just think the clarinet player would be further away, towards the back of the stage. It would more likely take out the front desk of violins – if they weren’t shielded by the piano lid.’
‘Shit! I thought we had it, Gail. Like, how long is a piano string anyway? I didn’t check.’
‘’That’s okay, I think they probably work better as a garrote anyhow.’
‘So how are we gonna murder Ilsa then?’ asked Jill. ‘Like, we need to come up with something pronto.’
‘Electric shock through her music stand?’
Jill gave this some thought. ‘Then she’d be a goner before the end of the overture. It would look like an accident rather than murder, so, like, no need for alibis for either of our suspects.’
‘The second clarinet and the piano maestro? The ambitious, overlooked, second-best player and the jealous, spurned lover.’
‘Yeah’, Jill replied.
‘Hmm,’ Gail thought for a moment. ‘The only way I know to kill someone with a piano is_’
‘Drop it down a mine shaft.’
‘Ha, the old ones are the best. Maybe we’d better stop there,’ laughed Gail, as they dissolved in hysterics.
Gail felt like it was her first proper laugh in ages. She was still recovering from being unceremoniously dumped. Their year-long affair had been intense and exciting – but it had to be kept secret! That might have been part of the appeal. But in the end, she’d been duped; used in a malicious, calculating fashion, and Gail was really not the forgive and forget “let’s stay friends” type. At the moment she was grateful for Jill’s ebullient sense of humour; one day she might tell her friend what had been going on for the last few months.
She glanced across at her friend, currently trying to get her breath back. She and Jill Stewart had met in their first year at Warwick University, both studying English Literature and both members of the same tutor group. Now in their third year, they had bonded in an unlikely friendship, having discovered a mutual love of classical music. Together, they had recently joined a reading group at the local library, the Homestead Book Club, when their professor had suggested his students gain more experience in discussing and defending their views on literature with a wider, more varied audience than their usual student set. So far, they had found the literary ladies rather condescending and set in their ways where books were concerned, choosing traditional or popular novels to read rather than anything more challenging. Although they were quite convivial socially, the small but dedicated group were dominated by the very forceful Monica.
Gail refilled their wine glasses, musing,
‘I wonder how the rest of them are getting on with this? Whose bright idea was it to also try drafting a short story idea this week anyway?’ she said.
‘You know it was yours, so we need to have something for those po-faced ladies next week’, replied Jill. ‘They seem to think all we know about literature is, like, text speak and “50 Shades of Grey”. Anyway, I’ve had a go, so it’s your turn to come up with a murder plot.’
Gail thought for a moment, and then, with a gleam in her eye, replied,
‘Okay, I’ll do a bit of research and have something to share next meeting.’
‘Hiya, pet, I’ve got yours in’ said Steve, pushing a large glass of white wine towards Jill as she dashed through the door of the pub, late and out of breath.
‘Great, just what I need. Cheers, babe.’
‘How’s gloomy Gail today then? Found out what’s up with her yet?’
‘Don’t be so mean, Steve. I know she’s, like, not very outgoing even at the best of times, but she’s usually more cheerful than the last few months. Like, I’ve been really worried that she might do something silly.’
‘She’s certainly not blessed with a sunny disposition like yours, pet,’ he replied. Jill punched his arm playfully. ‘I hope you realise how lucky you are. So, she seemed happier tonight anyway, like a weight had been lifted.’
‘Well, just get a shift on lifting that weight,’ indicating her glass, ‘cos I’m hoping to get a lot luckier tonight.’
‘Oh, babe’, giggled Jill.
The other members were already gathered in the kitchen of Monica’s gorgeous, posh house. Gail and Jill grabbed glasses of wine – ‘she’s right stuck-up, but she does buy, like, good chardonnay,’ whispered Jill as they sat down. Monica Greene-Blythe took her seat at the head of the table in her vast, open plan kitchen-cum-dining room, patting her iron grey perm into place as though preparing for battle. As self-appointed leader of the group, Monica was a daunting woman, always ready to share her views and opinions on books and writing – to the exception of everyone else’s. The fact that she was married to local historian and moderately successful amateur novelist, Gordon Greene-Blythe, cemented her status within the group – as she saw it anyway.
The ladies of the Homestead Book Club gathered from their various conversations around the room and took their places, fidgeting with bags, books, tea cups and wine glasses until an expectant hush settled.
‘Welcome, ladies,’ boomed Monica. ‘I hope you’ve all remembered your copies of Vanity Fair? I must say, I enjoyed the rise and then the downfall of that hussy, Becky Sharp. I’ve already had a useful discussion with hubby about it that I’ll share with you, but first I suppose we should see how you’ve managed the challenge set by Miss Mason and Miss Stewart. Remember, they suggested that we try writing our own outline for a crime story. A chance to bring out our inner Agatha Christie, you might say,’ she simpered.
From the number of pairs of eyes that were suddenly unable to meet anyone else’s, and the number of pairs of hands preoccupied with tidying cups and saucers, it was clear that the members of the book club did not have anything they cared to share at the moment.
Gail piped up. ‘Maybe Jill and I should read you what we’ve written so far, listen to any suggestions, and we can take it from there. Then someone else could take a turn next week.’
Lots of relieved nodding of heads signified their ready acquiescence as they sat back in their seats, visibly relaxing again.
‘Okay, I’ll read what we’ve got, although Jill hasn’t yet heard the latest bit, so here goes.
“Ilsa turned the page of her music to the second movement…”’
Gail enjoyed storytelling and using her writing to create images in people’s minds. After university she planned to forge a career in journalism; she particularly enjoyed features on underdogs fighting for justice, and ordinary people pursuing noble causes. At the moment, she relished the chance to draw in this audience with her words, and she could see by their body language that these listeners were involved in the tale. She hoped that she could keep their interest as she began the new section.
‘”Ilsa started to play, but seemed to be struggling for breath, gasping for air. The musicians around her were aware of her beautiful sound beginning to waver, becoming thin. The notes struggled to leave her instrument, her fingers shaking. The second clarinet player, smirking, watched out of the corner of his eye, preparing to continue the solo. Gradually, the rest of the orchestra, and then the audience, sensed that something was seriously wrong. The piano soloist glanced across towards the woodwind section, with frustration and annoyance in his eyes. This disruption was destroying his concentration and ruining the performance – but was there also a gleam of anticipation in his face?
Isla slid towards the ground, scattering sheets of music in a spill of paper across the stage. Her clarinet fell from her lifeless fingers – poisoned.”’
Gail took a deep breath and looked questioningly around the table. ‘That’s it for now. What do you all think? Does it seem credible?’
There was a flurry of “well done”, “sounds good so far” and other appreciative comments and Gail relaxed, preparing herself for some constructive criticism.
‘What poison would act so quickly, do you think?’ It was Anna, one of the quieter members of the group.
‘Yes, and why didn’t it block the tube, or fall out?’ – this from Sophie.
‘I’m thinking a sort of paste containing cyanide or arsenic or something could be smeared inside the top of the tube and then Ilsa would inhale the fumes. Cyanide is really fast-acting, apparently,’ replied Gail. She’d been doing a bit of useful online research so was pretty sure this would work.
Monica – of course, it would be! – zeroed in.
‘It’s certainly a good effort, considering how young you both are. There’s just one thing I don’t understand though. If the poison was inside the instrument, then surely it would have affected her earlier in the concert? They were already halfway through the concerto when she died. I think that’s stretching it a bit.’
‘Yes,’ echoed Jill, ‘so, that struck me too, but I bet Gail has the solution.’
Gail had spent quite some time checking her theory, so she was excited to share her Midsomer Murders-style plot twist.
‘I thought I’d figured out a way it could be done, so I double-checked with the clarinet professor in the uni music department.
Okay, so orchestral players use two types of instrument. My ex was a clarinetist so I remember this. There’s the normal one, in Bb, and then a less common one, in A, that they just use occasionally. I don’t quite understand why, but that’s not important here. Anyway, in the Rachmaninoff second piano concerto, they change to their A clarinets after the first movement. Ilsa wouldn’t have played that clarinet until then, so our murderer could easily have tampered with it in the crush before the concert,’ she finished triumphantly, searching their faces for a flash of understanding.
‘Well, I still don’t know,’ retorted Judith. ‘I’ll discuss it with my hubby and let you know what he thinks. After all, he is a published author.’
Gail fumed inwardly.
‘Actually, Monica, I think I’ll go with my own instincts on this one.’ She could hardly contain her anger. The cheek of the woman! ‘Of course, you’re absolutely free to chat with your husband,’ she shot back. ‘Just don’t expect me to take any of his advice.’
‘Well, I was only trying to help, I’m sure. You can’t please some people, can you?’ snapped Monica, glancing around the table for support from her acolytes. Unfortunately, she was met with an embarrassed silence and the meeting drew to an awkward end shortly after.
‘So when am I going to see your name in print then?’ Steve was cradling a cup of tea in one hand and scrolling on his phone with the other. They were both lolling on the sofa in Jill’s apartment later that night.
‘Ha, don’t think I’m gonna be signing copies in Waterstones anytime soon, babe. But, like, Gail is really into this idea of being an author. She was really, like, enjoying reading out our story for the first time just now. So, she’s been doing loads of research for this sort of – ‘project’ thing we’re doing’ she replied, doing the air quotes with her fingers. ‘She’s found out about all these, like, different poisons, and how to use them.’
‘Whoah, sounds very weird. A bit like those American documentaries – women who take revenge! Look, I’ve got one here on Insta.’
‘Yeah, right? If I didn’t know Gail so well, I might be worried. But it’s fine, so, I just think she’s, like, really into proving a point to the book club. Once she’s got it finished and, like, out of her system maybe we can get back to normal.’
‘And then I won’t need to be so worried about what you’ve been puttin’ in my tea.’
‘Idiot. Why would I want to kill you – for your money? I don’t think so!’
A few weeks later, Gail was enjoying a relaxed breakfast. It had been a late one the previous evening. Her housemates had already left and she didn’t have lectures until that afternoon. With a self-satisfied sigh, she was just reaching for her coffee when her phone lit up with a call – Jill.
‘Jill, what’s up? I’m just having breakfast, but I’ll be seeing you later, won’t I?’
‘Gail, so… it’s all over the news … at a concert … just like your story … it’s the same. She was murdered, like you wrote!’ Gail’s heart missed a beat. What was Jill saying?
‘Jill, slow down, take a breath. I can’t understand you … you mentioned our story? Start from the beginning.’
‘So, it’s all over the news. A concert … at Birmingham Symphony Hall. The clarinet player died – like that bit in our story. There’s no details, just that a female musician collapsed suddenly and died. It’s, like, all over my socials…just like you wrote it. I need to tell you…’
A sudden insistent knocking interrupted Jill’s gabbling monologue. Gail jumped up with a start, knocking her coffee to the floor. The cup smashed and sprayed hot coffee over her feet. She yelped with shock and pain.
‘Look, I’ll have to go, there’s someone at the door, but we’ll catch up later. And stop panicking, it’s just a coincidence, that’s all.’ Trying to gather her wits, she hobbled into the hallway, still clutching her phone to her ear. Through the pebbled glass in the door she could see two figures; a man and a woman, wearing dark uniforms. Jill was still talking …
‘Gail, wait, listen to me, Monica rang …. I just need to explain something…’ Gail cut the call, an icy chill at her back, different scenarios running through her mind, racing, as it was, to do a quick mental check around the flat. She opened the door.
‘Miss Mason?’ said the policeman in front of her, as they presented their warrant cards. ‘I’m Sergeant Robinson and this is PC Singh. We’d like to talk to you about Stephanie Naylor. I believe you knew her?’
‘Oh … what … erm, I’m not quite sure. I don’t think I recognise the name.’
‘I think you do, Miss Mason,’ PC Singh spoke. Shall we all take a seat so that we can explain?’
Robinson took over. ‘Stephanie Naylor was murdered yesterday evening, in Birmingham. I believe you knew her, and indeed had been in a relationship with her for the past few months. Could you tell us where you were last night, please?
‘Let me think… Well, I was at uni with lectures all day, and then I went to the library until late. I had some work that was due in. You can ask my friend, Jill, if you want to check.’ Gail could tell she was babbling. But they’d expect her to be nervous wouldn’t they? Surely anyone answering police questions would be feeling worried, they couldn’t think that fact meant anything, – could they?
Sergeant Robinson went on. ‘We need to tell you that we found notebooks in Stephanie’s house, filled with the names and details of young women like yourself that we believe she preyed on. That’s how we found your details. I’m sorry to tell you it wasn’t all that we discovered. I’m afraid we also uncovered compromising video footage from a hidden camera, featuring numerous young women. Stephanie apparently had plans to post it online, probably for blackmail purposes.’ Gail fought the impulse to throw up and struggled to appear calm, rather than showing the shivering mess she was inside. She could feel all her careful self-control breaking down.
‘Not just that, Miss Mason,’ Sergeant Robinson continued, ‘we’ve also had a call from a local couple, a Mr and Mrs Greene-Blythe, with some information concerning you, and relating to the murder of Stephanie Naylor. She was killed in Birmingham yesterday. It would appear that you were seeking revenge.’
‘I’m afraid they’ve wasted your time, Sergeant. Mrs Greene-Blythe is a vindictive, spiteful woman and I don’t even know her husband. I was at uni all day yesterday. Like I said, check with my friend, Jill Stewart.’
‘We have already spoken to Miss Stewart, and, although she was trying to be helpful whilst also being loyal to you, her story matches the Greene-Blythe’s. I’m afraid I need to ask you to come to the police station with us to help us with our inquiries.’//
About the Author
After a career in music education, Anji Brown now lives in the beautiful, historic city of York, UK, with her husband and dog. As an avid reader, she has an interest in words and language which led her to take an Open University degree in English literature as a mature student. Although coming to writing later in life, Anji would love to share her work with a wider reading audience.
About the Author
